


Killjoy

by LadySilver



Series: Weight of the World [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst Bingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An overheard conversation gelled for Allison the endgame of her training.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killjoy

An overheard conversation gelled for Allison the endgame of her training. 

Dinner had been a silent affair with her parents glaring at each other over the broasted duck while her grandfather praised his skill in the kitchen—a praise that somehow seemed intended to demean everyone else--, and only thoughts of Scott and the way he _looked_ at her at helped her make it through the meal without exploding in anger and frustration.

Every night was the same thing: tension, disagreement, aggression masquerading as politeness. When anyone spoke to her, it was to give orders or reprimands, always with the hint that she wasn’t old enough to know what she wanted.

Since they had moved to Beacon Hills, her parents treated her as a pawn or a tool or an obstacle, but almost never as a person. Only when she was with Scott did she remember how personhood felt, and remember how good it felt, to be recognized for who she was rather than what purpose she could serve.

By the time she finished cleaning up, her parents had relocated to the living room while her grandfather went outside for a stroll. As she walked toward the open doorway, she could hear the clinking of glassware and the strained hush of their voices. They were sharing an after dinner drink and a conversation laced with an urgency that brought chills to her spine. Lately, whenever her parents spoke like this, someone she loved got hurt.

“…Scott…” she heard her mother say. His name jumped out, and Allison gave in to the urge to stop and listen when the polite and proper response would have been to keep going. She stood as close to the doorframe as she dared, her shoulder pressed to the wall, and tried to make herself invisible.

Her father had only started her formal training a couple weeks before, and so far the activities had focused on the physical, building on the groundwork he’d been laying her whole life with archery and gymnastics. He’d also handed her a stack of books to read, most of which she couldn’t get more than a couple pages through at a time without rolling her eyes at what she felt were completely hyperbolic descriptions of werewolves and their depravities. Only one of the werewolves she knew had seemed capable of what the books described, and he hadn’t exactly been acting without cause.

“You saw how that worked for Kate,” her father replied to whatever it was her mother had said. The couch shifted, and Allison could hear him stand up. She could imagine him standing before the fireplace with his glass raised as a focus for his contemplation.

“Yes, we _all_ saw what happened there,” her mother spoke. “It can’t be allowed to happen that way again. The traditions exist for a _reason_.”

Her father’s footsteps sounded over the wood floorboards as he paced to the fireplace and back. “Traditions be damned,” he spat. “I will not allow…” He must have turned; his next words were lost or swallowed.

Allison scrunched closer, pulling her long hair back with one hand both to make sure her ears were unobstructed and so it wouldn’t accidentally swing into the open and give her presence away.

“It’s not your decision,” her mother bit out.

A thunk resounded, the glass landing on the table so hard that Allison was surprised it didn’t shatter. “I’m still her father and I say we find a different way. We want to train her, not destroy her.”

The room dropped into tense silence and Allison caught her breath, easing her exhalation out her nose as quietly as possible. Her stomach fluttered. She didn’t want to imagine how they thought Scott should factor into her training, though suspicions whirled in the back of her mind. Her parents knew how she felt about him; anyone who didn’t know wasn’t paying attention. He’d been her first boyfriend and first kiss, first real date and first heartbreak.

They didn’t know he had been her first _everything._

“Scott,” she heard her mother repeat. And it wasn’t a question, merely a statement of unwavering fact at how important Scott was. As if she knew.

But she couldn’t know. Allison hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to talk to her mother about birth control, so as far as she knew, her parents believed that she and Scott weren’t _that_ serious yet. Never mind that they had been _that_ serious that afternoon, taking advantage of some unsupervised time in between school letting out and Mrs. McCall arriving home.

A warm grin spread across her lips as she thought about how Scott’s hands felt as they roamed her body, his touch insistent but always moving, as if he would burn her if he kept his hands in one place too long. His lips, by comparison, were cool as they nibbled trails up her neck and down her shoulders. He loved her neck and could spend long minutes nosing her pressure points and mouthing her pulse. The sense memory of his lips on her skin sent a pleasant shiver through her body, followed almost immediately with a flush of embarrassment at how easily her thoughts had gotten derailed.

And, boy, had she gotten derailed. While her thoughts had wandered to the more pleasant, her parents had stopped talking. She had completely missed her father’s response—if there’d been one.

She recognized their silence as one of two players conniving to out maneuver the other. She didn’t trust it, didn’t trust them. They were plotting, and she knew that they were plotting about her. This was the worst, because their discussions often spanned days and fragments of conversations, and every second she stayed eavesdropping was a greater chance that she’d get caught with no guarantees that she’d learn anything else of importance.

Tempted though she was to peek around the corner and check on them, she opted for extraction. With careful movements, she backed up into the kitchen. Once freed of the need to be quiet, she took a deep breath, let it out, squared her shoulders. Then, as if she had just finished the cleanup, she strode past the living room, not even sparing a glance in. If her parents noticed anything amiss, they didn’t speak up. They didn’t even call out to wish her good night.

Allison really did have a lot of homework to do, and she really did mean to do it. She opened the top book and lined up the pens, read over the chapter summary and located the next blank page in the notebook—and ended up staring at it, pen gripped tight between her fingers, without any clue what marks she was supposed to make on the page. She thoughts buzzed with the shreds she had overheard downstairs, with her boyfriend’s name being spat from her mother’s lips, and with her father’s protestations about his sister.

Her hand started to shake.

She stared at it in confusion, unable to make sense of what it was doing or why. The pen dropped from her suddenly helpless fingers and landed on the paper. A blot of ink marked where it had hit, marring the other smooth spread of lined-white that was waiting to be written on and given a purpose, waiting to be filled. The first mark that complicated the whole plan. It could be worked around, but not easily. Not without lasting consequence.

All at once, the pieces of her parents’ conversation came together.

Slowly, she stood up and crossed to her dresser. Her crossbow lay on top surrounded with scattered earrings and rings that hadn’t made it back into her jewelry box. A bolt sat next to the weapon like another decoration. All of the items had been supplied by her parents, a spread of trinkets that summed up her whole identity and all she was supposed to desire. She was a girl, a daughter, and a hunter-in-training.

With one eye on the bolt, as if it would nock itself and shoot if she didn’t stop it, she slid open the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out the strip of photographs from the other night at the ice rink when they snuck in after hours. Here was the rest of her identity: friend, girlfriend. Rule-breaker.

She held the strip up to the light. Her knees weakened at the memory of Scott’s fingers tracing down her sides and sliding between her legs, of Scott’s breath warm and moist as it gusted over her stomach.

The picture strip was more accurate than she could have imagined when the two posed for it with their silliest faces. There was Scott, the boy, who was her first love. The boy her parents had forbidden her from seeing, not caring that he was the one who saw her.

Shining from his eyes was the proof of Scott, the werewolf, whom her parents had kept alive only because they meant him to be her first kill.

**Author's Note:**

> For angst bingo prompt: first time


End file.
